


On Edge

by Kaz_Langston



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Crying, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Inappropriate use of Axii, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Jaskier pisses off the wrong person and has an incredibly frustrating few weeks.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 599





	On Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Minimal canon knowledge. Pretty sure it doesn't matter since this is just filth.

Jaskier's had a successful evening after leaving Geralt at the crossroads, promising to meet up in six weeks in Vizima. He's had a good meal, premiered a new song that went down surprisingly well given how unpolished it was, and there's a very good looking gentleman in the corner who's been making eyes at him all evening.

Lute over his shoulder he saunters over, but it's slow progress since it feels everyone in the tavern has something to say to him. He sends coquettish glances every few minutes, and the man's eyes are fixed on him the whole time, deep brown skin blushing darker when he offers a cheeky wink.

When he finally gets to the table he sinks down with a sigh of relief, not so close as to be impolite but just close enough to be entirely suggestive. "You," he says with sultry delight, "Have been watching me extremely closely."

He runs a hand up the dull brown sleeve, a contrast to his own finery, and looks up from under his lashes.

"You're very - talented," the man offers with a nervous smile.

"Oh, a lot of people say that," Jaskier muses, and then adds with a wicked smile, "They also say I have very good... hands."

The man swallows, and Jaskier watches the bob of his Adam's apple under the scruff. "Jaskier," he says, holding a hand out to be shaken.

There's a moment of hesitation, and then a calloused hand slides into his and grips it. "Filip."

"Filip." Jaskier twists his hand, cupping slim fingers and bringing them to his mouth, pressing his lips to the curve of them in the lightest touch. "Perhaps you could show me where I could leave my lute before I retire for the evening? I would normally leave it in my room, but perhaps you have somewhere else in mind?"

Filip looks torn, and Jaskier waits patiently, but then the man makes his decision. "I - yes. I'll show you. Follow me?"

Jaskier places another kiss on the shaking hand, and practically skips to his feet.

They end up in a room above the fletcher's shop - Filip's shop, it turns out, though he's keen not to dwell on that as they enter a cosy home, fire banked and bed made.

Jaskier's newfound paramour is nervous, tentative, and Jaskier knows better than to overwhelm him with attention; he's had plenty of blushing virgins in his time.

When he drops to his knees there's an endearing gasp, and he looks up. "Have you ever...?"

"Not with - a man," Filip chokes out, shaking his head, and Jaskier smiles before unfastening his trousers.

"I'll make it good for you," he promises.

Time passes. Clothes vanish. They fuck once; sleep; then before the night is over he's balls deep in the fletcher, wringing desperate moans from him as the man clutches desperately at the sheets beneath him.

He draws out Filip's bliss as long as possible, then tugs him over the edge to drown himself in the low grunting and pulsing grip, feeling his own orgasm approaching, the familiar tightening in his gut.

It's only experience that stops him from shouting out as the door bangs open, revealing a furious woman with an armful of greenery. Instead, he flings himself down on the bed, yanking his cock out in what must have been an unpleasant experience for the foolish man he'd been buried in, and hisses, "Friend of yours?"

It turns out she's rather more than a friend, she's his betrothed, and rather unimpressed with his behaviour.

Still achingly hard - he'd been so very close! - Jaskier yanks on his breeches and seizes his doublet, though he sacrifices his smallclothes, and sticks his feet in his boots before pelting down the stairs, furious shouting nipping at his heels.

He thinks he's got away with it, all her ire directed at her husband-to-be, but there's another shout and he flinches. "And you! Stealing husbands like the nasty whore you are! I hope you never enjoy another night!"

Something hits him in the shoulder and he stumbles, nearly falls, but then he's up and running again in the predawn light, back to the tavern where he'd left his pack with the barkeep. A bit of running is a small price to pay for a night of fun and a bed for no coin, and he whistles on his way out of town.

*-*-*-*-*

He spends the night on the road, sleeps well in his bedroll after not enough hours the previous night. When he strolls into the next town one of the barmaids is easy enough on the eyes and doesn't seem to mind giving him a discount on the room once he offers a sly wink.

She ends up in his bed before his performance, writhing underneath him as he rubs her clit, shivering into a delicious orgasm that tugs at him and yet isn't quite enough to finish him off. He keeps going, frustrated at himself as the sweat pours down his back, but she's starting to look bored and eventually asks if he's done in a pointed manner that suggests one way or another he better be finished soon.

He decides perhaps it just isn't the night for it, pulls out with a forced grin, and tells her she's a wonderful lady, but the rigours of the road have unfortunately tired him too much.

Unimpressed, she tugs her skirts down and heads back to the bar, leaving him sat on his bed and entirely unfulfilled. He thinks about finishing himself off quickly, but her expression hovers in his mind and instead he tucks himself away with a sigh. The stage calls.

His performance is excellent despite his distraction, and he earns more than enough coin to get a bath in his room. It's a different girl that brings up the water, but she doesn't respond to his flirting and he gives up.

*-*-*-*-*

With the remaining coin from his performance he pays for an hour at the brothel the next night, more than enough time for him to come even if he's exhausted from the road.

Except it isn't.

The whore uses all her tricks, mouth and hands and slick sweet depths, even sliding an oiled finger inside him as she takes him in her mouth again. She's good, very good, takes him to the edge more than once, but by the end of the hour Jaskier's more frustrated than ever. Achingly hard, he stumbles from the room, gets half his coin back, and leaves.

He lies in bed later, prick an angry red, slick with his own pre-cum, stomach tense and twitching with how very close he is to coming, but no matter how hard he tries, how he tightens his grip or twists his wrist or thinks of that extraordinarily filthy orgy he'd had one glorious night back in Oxenfurt after exams, he can't quite drag himself over the edge.

Eventually he gives up, cock sore from the attention, and throws himself angrily on his stomach to try and sleep, curled up around the pillow.

*-*-*-*-*

He's in a foul mood the next day, no state for a bard trying to perform, so instead of staying in the town he hits the road. He marches for an hour at full tilt, feet eating up the dusty path, then slows a little as the road starts to wind up through hills. The punishing pace is a distraction from his little _problem_ , but whenever the road levels out he drives himself forward until his thighs burn with the effort. It's well into the afternoon before he stops for lunch, fresh bread and sweetcakes and ice cold water from a stream, and the well-earned food lightens his mood, the rest of the day spent at a much more leisurely pace.

The next village is small, barely a hamlet, but he performs all the same, and they're delightfully appreciative of new music. He gets a room for almost nothing, and spends his extra coin on a bath to wash away the sweat of the day.

Lounging in the hot water, Jaskier runs a finger across his chest, feeling rough curled hair and slim, firm pectoral muscles. His nipples have peaked in the heat, little pink nubs rising from his body, and he tweaks one then the other, humming softly as he tilts his head back. One hand stays on his nipples, the other ranges up to his throat to feel his pulse thud under his fingers, then lower, sinking under the surface of the water.

His cock is hard, but he doesn't touch it yet, teasing himself instead, brushing sensitive thighs and feeling the crease where leg meets hip.

When he can't stand it any longer, when the anticipation is too much, he touches the very tip of his cock with a gentle finger, delighting in how sensitive he is already, then strokes his length slowly, feeling velvet soft skin move over hardness.

Shifting in the water he presses a hand behind him, sliding a finger over his hole, nudging and rubbing as the hand on his cock tightens, feeling the tight entrance loosen and allow the tip of his finger to press inside. He groans, hand moving faster, then forces himself to slow. He'd promised himself the luxury of taking his time, of a full evening just chasing towards the high, and there's no point in rushing.

Once the water starts to cool he clambers out, legs sluggish from arousal and the luxurious heat, cock hanging heavy and throbbing between his legs. He grabs lavender oil from his pack and slumps down on the bed, legs splayed wide.

Body relaxed by the bath, his oiled finger slips in easily and deep, and his head rocks back against the pillow at the feel of it, biting at his lip.

Two fingers, then after a long time a third, grunting as he curls them just right, brushing over that familiar spot inside that makes sparks fly across his eyelids.

His other hand is loose on his cock, stroking slowly, oil easing every movement as he bucks forward into his fist and back onto his fingers. It's perfect, slick and easy and steady, and he can feel the steady inexorable building low in his gut, the hot tightness that promises release.

He builds himself higher and higher, each moment sure that this is it, this is when the wave breaks, but it never quite crests.

Even when he's curled around himself, face red and sweating and twisted, whining low in his throat as he writhes between the two points of bliss, he can't reach that pinnacle he's been driving towards, frustratingly out of reach for what feels like hours.

A fourth finger makes him sob with the too-much not-enough burn of it, but it doesn't help.

Nothing helps.

He falls asleep with his hand still on his oiled cock, tears staining his cheeks and pillow.

*-*-*-*-*

Jaskier doesn't touch himself for days after that, furious at his inability to come and feeling ridiculous for feeling like a failure for something so petty. He doesn't take anyone up on their offers, but after a week or so of silent sulking a sweet faced young man meets his eyes across the room while he performs.

Between sets he goes to his knees behind the tavern, gives the young merchant probably the best blow job he's ever had, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He's hard in his breeches, but when a hand tentatively reaches for him he brushes it away with an inscrutable smile.

Something about the way the young man looks at him with sweet gratitude reminds him of Filip.

A sudden flash of fury and comprehension burns in his chest, but he schools his face like the performer he prides himself in being. "I must return to my adoring audiences, but you were lovely." Jaskier presses a gentle kiss to a blush pink cheek, and heads back inside, leaving the merchant trembling-legged in the alley.

*-*-*-*-*

In the next large town, he heads to a whorehouse again.

This time he pays for a full night and for specialist services, picking up ropes and a paddle as he marches determinedly upstairs. He has a safeword, but doesn't plan on using it.

He hangs on the edge, bound and whimpering and desperate as the woman spanks him until he howls. Despite her best efforts he leaves in the morning as unsatisfied as when he arrived, with only bruises and rope burn for the experience.

*-*-*-*-*

When he walks through the door of the Fox, Geralt's already settled in the corner with an ale, and the witcher gives him a short nod, in his own stoic witchery way looking almost pleased to see him.

"Geralt! How were your hunts? Anything exciting?"

"Harpy near Brugge, tried to take a bite out of Roach." Geralt snorts. "Found her the next morning nose down in a meadow, fat as a spring lamb."

Jaskier whines a complaint - he's never quite managed to see a harpy, and he has an idea for a ballad that could really do with a lot of filling in of the details. "What was she like? Was she beautiful? Could she use magic?" He fumbles for his notebook and quill.

"Strong," the witcher says, and Jaskier closes his eyes. Why is everything designed to frustrate him?

" _How_ strong? Did she uproot a tree? Throw a boulder?"

"Wind magic. Threw - everything." The witcher seems almost cheerful about it. Jaskier kicks himself again for deciding to take the route through the larger towns, with fewer contracts but the more popular and well-paying taverns.

"Right, start from the absolute beginning, I need to know everything. What time of day, was it perhaps a romantically moonlit night?"

After a good hour of prying, Jaskier finally has his fill of the story of the harpy. The witcher is in an unusually positive mood, slightly less brooding and scowly than when they separated over a month ago, and by contrast the bard is snappish and quick to take offence, biting back his irritation more than once when Geralt doesn't elaborate sufficiently.

The witcher already has a room, and when Jaskier agrees to perform that evening they get meals thrown in too.

He's cheered a little by Geralt's company, and his evening performance is more lively than it has been in days. He flirts outrageously, dancing between pinching hands and welcoming laps, but when he takes his bow at the end of the evening it's Geralt that he returns to, reluctant to sacrifice even brooding company for something that he knows is likely to end in frustration.

His mood is a carefully balanced scale, swaying from glee to irritation at the slightest provocation. The admiration of the crowd lifted him for a while, but when the pretty barmaid brings them full bowls of stew and plates of fresh bread he can't bring himself to flirt with her.

They eat the meal in silence. The plates are taken away, and the barmaid gives him a quite frankly filthy wink, but he just looks down at his hands where they rest on the table. Now it's not part of the performance it's just an irritating reminder of what he can't have.

Geralt looks concerned, an unfamiliar angle to the furrow in his brow. "Jaskier. Did something happen?"

"Nothing! Absolutely fucking _nothing_!" He shoves away from the table and stalks away.

*-*-*-*-*

He slinks up to the room late that evening, shamefaced at his own temper but still sharp and irritable.

Throwing himself in the chair he snatches up his lute and plucks at the strings, making no effort to be quiet. Geralt, who hadn't visibly stirred at the sound of the door, rolls over and gives him a heavy look.

"I'd forgotten how loudly you sulk. Find a bed or get in this one." The low voice is very clear about quite what that involves, and it certainly isn't just sleep. They've done it before, fucking away frustrations and irritations or just loneliness on the road.

Witcher stamina, witcher magic. Fuck yes.

He puts down his lute and strips, quick and efficient, and grabs the oil from his pack, shoving it at Geralt's hand before flinging himself face down on the bed and spreading his legs wantonly. There are nights for sweet kisses and slow lovemaking, but this is very much not one of those nights.

Geralt's big hands press his cheeks wide, dry finger brushing against his hole. Jaskier whimpers and presses back against it, and Geralt snorts. "Easy, bard."

Jaskier twists around, wild eyed. "Get on with it then!"

Geralt doesn't move for a long moment, and Jaskier thinks that he can hear - "Are you _sniffing_ me?"

The witcher's voice is suspicious. "Something's wrong."

"Yes, something's wrong, I'm naked and you're _not doing anything_!"

"Jaskier-"

Almost whining in frustration Jaskier buries his head in his forearms and bites out, "Yes, ok, I ran into a little bit of trouble while we were apart, and I might be a _tiny_ bit cursed, but can we _please_ not get into the details right now? They really don't matter."

Geralt smooths a hand across the plane of Jaskier's back, but after a long moment and more damned sniffing he returns his attention to his arse, and Jaskier hisses out a low _yes_ between gritted teeth.

Calloused fingers ease him open, curling deep where he needs it, and before long he can feel a thick cock pressing at his entrance, slipping past the tight ring as he forces himself to relax.

He can't stop himself talking as Geralt pushes deeper, muttered filthy things that tail off into _yes_ and _please_ and _Geralt_. The feel of him is exquisite, it always is, just the right side of too full, and he pants into the sheets, bucking back against implacable muscles.

Hands tighten on his hips, pulling him back to drive the witcher's cock deep, deep enough that he yelps and tightens around it before curving his back in a silent plea for more.

Geralt is a generous lover, far too aware of his own stamina and attentive to his partner's needs. Every time they've fucked in the past he's made sure Jaskier's loose and ready to take him before easing him into at least one orgasm, and on the odd occasion it's been the other way around he's been a more than enthusiastic participant.

He's as attentive as ever, but despite the cock pounding deep in Jaskier's arse and the hand stripping Jaskier's throbbing cock it's the witcher that comes first, spilling deep inside him with a grunt.

Jaskier howls in frustration, and then before Geralt's even started to soften the bard bursts into tears, great heaving things that shake his body as he sobs into the pillow.

"Jaskier? Fuck."

Geralt pulls out too quickly; it stings a little and the loss of the fullness hurts more, but he's too busy with the aching disappointment of the tantalising build in his gut to really care.

Broad hands ease him down onto the mattress, turning him gently onto his side, and he tries to hide his tear streaked face with shaking hands.

He chokes out an apology, but he's not sure it makes sense through the tears.

The witcher slides off the bed, crouching at his side trying to make eye contact. "Did I hurt you? Gods, Jaskier, I thought you were enjoying it, I swear-"

"No, no," Jaskier gasps out, horrified at the thought that his affliction has caused his friend distress, "It wasn't you, I'm just _broken_." He breaks into fresh sobs at that.

He's gathered in strong arms, held tight to a broad chest, and Geralt rocks him as he spills the whole sorry story.

When he's done, Geralt brushes sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead with a careful hand.

"You didn't think to tell me?"

Jaskier shrugs unhappily. "Thought you might just fix it with your magical witchery cock."

Geralt snorts.

"Didn't work though. Guess I'll just have to get used to it." The thought of that makes his chest ache, not to mention his balls, but perhaps in time the curse will burn off. Or he'll find a mage who's willing to help. Not bloody Yennefer, who would surely laugh cruelly at his misfortune.

Strong fingers curl under his miserable chin, lift his gaze to meet golden eyes and a contemptuous eyebrow raise. "Witchers have more power than a little hedgewitch, however well motivated."

Jaskier's jaw would drop if Geralt wasn't propping it up. "You'll - you'll help?"

"Of course."

The steady firmness of that reply has relieved tears springing up in Jaskier's eyes again, but he dashes them away. "We can start at first light! Are there herbs you need, will we need to get back on the road or can you get them here? I have coin, I-"

"Jaskier. Hush."

He shuts his mouth, and they're both slightly surprised at how well that worked.

"If you're willing, a well timed sign should do it."

"Willing - of course!" He's hardly seen Geralt use witcher signs, and the thought of getting more insight into them is almost as tempting as the thought that he might be able to come for the first time in six weeks.

Geralt studies him for a minute, sharp eyes taking in blotchy cheeks and his limp cock. "Wash your face, drink something, eat. After that - lie on the bed."

When Jaskier stands, the slick spill between his thighs reminds him that the witcher's already filled him once, and he takes care of that first with a damp rag before splashing his face with fresh water. Looking in the mirror he's faintly appalled at his appearance, bloodshot red rimmed eyes and bite swollen lips, hair tousled beyond any semblance of style. A far cry from his usual seductive image. He doesn't even have the satisfaction of looking sated.

The thin ale soothes his dry throat, and he takes a few bites of an apple before abandoning it on the cabinet. The sweetness of it gives him a little energy back, enough to face a second round with the witcher.

Laid out on the bed, Geralt kneels at his side, a calm and steady presence. The burn from the dashing of his previous hope still nags at him, and his cock is limp and reluctant in his hand. He bites his lip and looks away from the witcher's pale face, ashamed.

"We don't have to do this now," Geralt rumbles.

He can't take the anticipation of waiting, thinking that tomorrow will be the day only to be disappointed and frustrated yet again. Better to do it now, find out one way or the other.

"I can do it," Jaskier says determinedly, squeezing at himself, and reluctantly the blood begins to swell his prick in his grasp.

"Jaskier." A hand covers his, stills his movement. Geralt starts to say something, changes his mind, and says instead, "Let me."

Jaskier bites his lip and nods, letting his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling where ancient dusty cobwebs marr the solid beams.

Distracted, he's taken by surprise when a wet heat envelops him, and his head snaps down to see Geralt's head between his legs, pink lips wrapped around his cock, grey-white hair swept over one shoulder to tickle at the thin skin of his hip. "Oh," he says stupidly, and drops his head back on the pillow.

Geralt coaxes him back to hardness, tongue wide and flat as it presses against the sensitive head, cheeks hollow above his strong jaw as he sucks.

Fingers tease at his hole, still open and slick from before, and he groans at the feel of it. Normally he'd be more than done after Geralt's finished inside him, aching and oversensitive, but that was before all this, before this stupid curse, and something in him delights at the pleasure-pain of it.

When he's opened enough he fists a hand in Geralt's hair and pulls him off his cock, though he knows better than to yank. "I'm ready, I'm ready, gods, fuck me and make me finally fucking come, you bastard."

Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier scowls, squirming away to try and turn over.

A calloused hand catches his arm, strong fingers digging into the muscle. "No. If I'm going to do this, to force it, I need to see you." The witcher's face is even more sombre than usual. Suddenly a little overwhelmed Jaskier swallows hard and then nods, settling obediently back on the bed with legs spread wide as Geralt kneels between them. A hand under Jaskier's arse lifts him up in a show of effortless strength, positioning him exactly where the witcher wants him, legs over his shoulders and hips high.

Geralt's eyes are wicked in the firelight as he kneels up and sinks his cock deep, slick with oil and his own spend, Jaskier's thighs glistening with it. Jaskier groans, any reluctance long forgotten in his eagerness, and flings his head back at the thick cock brushing unerringly over that sweet spot. "Thank the gods for - _oh!_ \- witcher stamina," he pants, and though Geralt huffs out a low laugh he doesn't stop the steady curling of his hips, nor the wet slide of his fist around the bard's cock.

Strong scarred thighs press against him as Geralt fucks him deep, a slow roll that has Jaskier wordlessly moaning and his eyes rolling in his head as the pleasure builds higher and higher.

"Please, Geralt, let me come, make me come, _please_ ," he begs, hips twitching desperately, that familiar roiling wave tugging at him, agonisingly close and yet impossibly far.

Geralt raises his free hand closed in a fist, forms a quick shape with a flick of his fingers, and then commands him. "Jaskier. Come now."

There's an instant when he doesn't think it's worked, but then something snaps inside him and the building wave finally, finally crests. It hits him like a wall, rips out of him with the savagery of something feral, and his voice cracks in a desperate wail as his body bows under the strain. It's better than the first time he fucked a woman, the first time he took a cock inside himself, the first time Geralt took him apart under starlight.

The bliss chases him down into darkness.

*-*-*-*-*

Awakening is a slow process, a steady building awareness of sore muscles and a weak, wrung out feeling suffusing every inch of him.

There's a hand on his chest, a heavy wide thing resting above his heart, and when he finally feels he has control of his limbs again he lifts his hand to curl around it, entwining their fingers.

Jaskier blinks sluggishly awake, blurred vision filled with golden eyes and pale skin. There's a hint of concern in the strong brow, and he offers up a lazy smile. "I think that was the best fuck I've ever had."

Geralt's features soften into smugness and relief. "Hex is gone. It was strong, she must have been pissed."

Jaskier shakes his head. Now it's over he can't help but be impressed at the hedgewitch's revenge, however much it hadn't been him that deserved her ire.

"Wonder what other uses we could find for that sign," he muses happily. "Not today, you understand - maybe not for a week, I still can't feel my legs - but soon. Gods, the possibilities!"

The hand in his squeezes tight before Geralt lets go. Jaskier's too blissed out to feel disappointed, but when it's replaced on his chest by a quite frankly cuddly witcher, he flings an arm happily around the wide shoulders and presses a kiss to pale hair.


End file.
